


fifteen minutes

by eating_custardinbed



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon Divergence, Confessions, Conversations, Gun Violence, How Do I Tag, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Super angsty, Whump, Wilson Gets Shot, angsty, because i've decided i love wilson and therefore i must torture him, i love that fucker to bits, i'm not sure when in season 2 but definitely season 2, idk i haven't decided yet, let's be honest this could've conceivably happened, probably post ep21??, seriously i'm not kidding when i say i would die for wilson, set in season 2, thats it thats the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eating_custardinbed/pseuds/eating_custardinbed
Summary: When James Wilson came to work this morning, he was expecting a normal day. That is, he has been expecting to tell a few people they were dying, getting bullied into buying his grumpy best friend lunch, maybe flirting with the new nurse in radiology to make him feel just a little better about his third divorce. What he has not been expecting is to be locked in his office with a madman, staring down the barrel of a gun.or, wilson gets shot and locked in his office. he and house have a conversation
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 40
Kudos: 106





	1. t-minus three minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would like to thank all the fuckers who enabled me with this. lockdown 3.0 is not good for me and upon re-reading one of my old oneshots from when i was like,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 12??? 13??? gave me a flash of inspiration. (so yes if you recognise little parts that is why, it's adapted from an old fic published on FF.net), so i've decided to give co-writing two fandoms a go
> 
> this is gonna be super angsty. i've done my best with the medical jargon, but please excuse any errors. this hasn't been beta-ed so any and all errors are my own. updates may be few and far between or rapid fire. i'm not sure yet. also i wasn't sure how to warning tag this, so i've put both "none" and "chose not to use". also rated mature for.... well, obvious reasons. 
> 
> please enjoy this

When James Wilson came to work this morning, he was expecting a normal day. That is, he has been expecting to tell a few people they were dying, getting bullied into buying his grumpy best friend lunch, maybe flirting with the new nurse in radiology to make him feel just a little better about his third divorce. What he has not been expecting is to be locked in his office with a madman, staring down the barrel of a gun.

Well, maybe some explanation is needed. 

You see, the day had started normally, with House accosting him at the front entrance asking for a consult. When Wilson had asked him whether _“consult”_ really meant _“cover my clinic hours”_ he had quickly slunk away, however, grumbling to himself under his breath. Then had been his patient rounds, where a young patient had insisted on giving him her small plastic toy tiger. He was just positioning it on his desk next to the sand zen garden that House so loved to mess with when the door had opened and banged shut again. 

"House, just because you don’t want to do your clinic hours doesn’t mean you can just--" he began exasperatedly before actually looking up. It was one of his patients. Unfortunately, this was one of the patients for whom it didn’t exactly end well. Just two days ago Wilson had had to deliver the news to the man of his imminent death. It was one of four similar conversations the doctor had had to have that day, something which he had not taken lightly. He cleared his throat, standing up and offering his hand to the man. “I’m sorry, Mr Peterborough, I thought you were someone else. How can I help?” 

Mr Peterborough, Charles as Wilson knew him, was looking shifty. He was standing with his back to the door, one hand in his pocket whilst the other fumbled with the door handle. He looked rough, but then again he was dying. A moment later, Wilson heard the lock click. He stared at Charles in confusion. “If this is a conversation that you’d rather had in private--”

“Shut up,” Charles snarled. The hand in his pocket didn’t move as he moved across the room, glancing out of the glass door that went onto the balcony before locking that too. Wilson cursed himself for leaving the damn key in the door (to stop House using the copy he’d made to get into when he didn’t want him to, obviously). 

“Charles--”

“ _I said shut up_!” 

That was when he pulled the gun out of his pocket, and why Wilson is in the situation he is in now. 

Part of him is screaming at him to say something, _anything_ , but the gun trained on him and the wild look in Charles’ eyes is telling him otherwise. 

"Why can't you cure me?" Charles spits. He sounds angry, really angry actually, but the oncologist can hear the slight shaking in his voice. That means fear, he knows that. He’s worked with enough dying people to know what fear sounds like. 

“Charles, I know you’re upset--” he starts to say, but Charles cuts him off by clicking the safety off on the gun. Wilson is sure he feels his blood pressure jump up another couple of points. His heart is hammering in his chest. 

“Don’t use that fucking voice on me,” the other man says. Wilson knows which voice he means: House often complains about the exact same thing. “Now tell me why you can’t cure me.” 

"I explained this to you," Wilson says, doing everything he can to keep his voice level. Charles has been his patient for nearly two and a half years now. Metastatic liver cancer. Well, it didn’t start out as metastatic, but it has certainly ended that way. There’s tumours… well, it would be easier to name where there _aren't_ tumours in his body than to list where they are. Even now, he can’t help but note with concern the slight yellow tinge to the whites of Charles’ eyes. "We've tried everything; chemo, surgery, even experimental treatments, but the cancer is just too aggressive. I'm sorry."

"To hell you're sorry," Charles hisses through gritted teeth. He gestures again with the gun, making Wilson flinch. "To hell you explained it."

"Charles, let’s maybe just… calm it down with the gun,” Wilson says as he holds his hands out. He regrets it immediately as anger flashes in Charles’ eyes, and he quickly moves away from behind his desk. The two are now standing at either ends of the office, Charles by the door and Wilson with his back half-pressed against the bookshelf. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Charles replies. “Don’t you _fucking_ tell me what to do. You’ve been telling me what to do for two years now and it’s never fucking worked, has it? I’ve still got cancer. I’m still _dying_.”

“I know that,” Wilson says. “And I know that’s scary--”

“What did I say about the voice!?”

“Right, right, sorry.” Wilson takes a deep breath. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing “The Voice” (as House, Cuddy, half of the nurses and now apparently Charles call it) half of the time. It’s just automatic, he guesses. Taking another deep breath, he forces himself to pretend that Charles, is somebody, _anybody_ else. Someone who isn’t a patient. 

“You’re scared,” he eventually says. “Hell, if somebody had told me I was gonna die I’d be scared too.” It’s true. He’s scared now-- absolutely terrified, actually-- and doesn’t having a gun pointing at you count as somebody telling you you’re going to die? “But that’s no reason to turn to this.”

“What do you know about what I need to turn to?”

“What about Jennie, Lucy, Tara? Do you think they’d want this?”

“Don’t you dare bring them into this,” Charles says lowly. His voice is shaking something horrible as a tear drips down his cheek and he quickly wipes it away. Wilson is tempted to take a step forward, but chooses not to. 

“Charles, _please_ \--”

"Shut up!" Charles shrieks, finally squeezing the trigger.

Wilson doesn’t really feel it, not at first. Now that the shot has been fired Charles seemed shocked with himself, staring at the gun in his trembling hands. The oncologist reaches up slowly (with surprisingly steady hands considering he’s just been shot) and puts a hand to his wound. 

“I liked this tie,” is all he says. 

“Shit!” Charles shouts. He puts a hand over his mouth, stumbling backwards. Wilson can hear some sort of commotion outside the door. The gunshot was loud, people must have heard. He watches on, helpless, as Charles paces a little before grabbing the crutch Wilson inexplicably keeps in the corner of his office (for “emergencies'', he always says, which inevitably means when House somehow damages his cane or needs a little extra support for his leg) and jamming it under the door handle. _Great,_ Wilson thinks, _now I really am trapped_. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” 

“Charles…” Wilson says. The wound is almost starting to burn now, painful but nothing he can’t handle. 

“Oh my God, I just shot you,” Charles breathes. People are banging on the door now, shouting, trying to get in. “And people know. People are going to _know_. Shit. I’m going to go to prison!” 

“Charles, it’s okay,” Wilson tells him. 

“How is it okay!?” Charles yells. “I just… I just _shot_ you and you’re telling me it’s okay!?” 

“Okay, maybe it isn’t okay,” Wilson says. He lets out a low grunt of pain, his fingers grasping at the material of his shirt. There’s surprisingly little blood so far, which he hopes means that the bullet hasn’t hit any vital organs. “But I can testify. Say you were out of your mind with pain, that you didn’t mean to…”

“So they can shut me away in some hospital somewhere!? I don’t think so.”

Slowly, the two mens’ eyes drift down to the gun that Charles is still holding. Outside, Wilson can faintly hear Cuddy, House, the ducklings, so many people trying to figure out how to get into his office. Charles’ eyes flick up to Wilson before looking back down to the gun. He charges over to the glass door, propping the other crutch firmly under _that_ handle (so tightly that Wilson isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to get it out) before coming back over to stand by the wooden door. 

“Don’t you dare,” Wilson says. His voice is shaking something horrible. “Don’t you _dare_.” 

Charles gives him a small sad smile. He shrugs a little as Wilson shakes his head frantically.

“What have I got to lose?” Charles says quietly. 

Before Wilson can stop him, Charles raises the gun to his temple and pulls the trigger. 

Wilson has seen people die before. He’s seen many people die, actually. One thing he’s never seen, though, is somebody get shot in the head, and now he knows he never wants to see it again. Charles’ brains are now splattered against the poster that had been in the office when he’d moved into it, the wall, the carpet, oh, _everything_. He can hear people screaming outside. As his stomach turns, the gunshot wound in his belly burns even more. He lets out another pained noise as his legs start to shake. One hand over his wound, he clutches at his desk and takes a few deep breaths. 

Then his phone rings. 

It’s resting on his desk, and he forces himself to lean over, doing his best to ignore the pain emanating from the wound. As he flips it open, he hears a rap on the glass door and turns. 

It’s House. Of course it’s House. There’s a look in his eyes, though, as he stands there on their shared balcony, something that Wilson hasn’t seen since the infarction. It’s… fear. House looks _scared_. When the two lock eyes, though, House seems to relax a little. He waves his phone at Wilson, and that’s when Wilson realises it’s House who’s calling him. He answers quickly. 

“Next time when there’s gunshots in your office, remember it’s impolite to lock yourself in with a corpse,” House barks. Wilson can’t help but chuckle a little at that, forcing himself to disguise his wince. 

“Yeah, I’ll remember that next time it happens,” he says dryly. 

“Still, you look fine. So come on, out you come,” House replies. He sounds like a mother scolding their child. 

That’s when Wilson realises that he’s still half-twisted by his desk, and House hasn’t seen the wound. He takes a deep breath. It hurts. He fixes House, who is starting to look a little annoyed now, with a look before turning and taking his hand (bloody fingers and all) away from the gunshot. 

When he was in med school, they did a term on traumatic injuries. They did more than a term, actually, but that particular term had focused on traumatic injuries caused by deadly weapons. He is sure House has had the same lectures back when _he_ was in med school. One thing he remembers from those lectures is that when somebody is shot in the stomach, they have roughly fifteen minutes before the toxins seeping into the abdominal cavity from the gastric acid overwhelms them and sends them into a fatal toxic shock. 

And as their eyes meet through the door, both House and Wilson know that the clock has just begun to tick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyou for reading!! keep your eye out for the next chapter. i think they'll be maybe 5 in total??? i'm not sure yet. anyway, keep an eye out. kudos and/or comments are greatly appreciated!
> 
> stay safe and happy, y'all xx


	2. zero to five minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to another couple thousand words or so of me torturing wilson. i'm glad to see it's so well-received lol!! seriously tho, thankyou to everybody who's read so far and you, who is reading now!!! i really hope it lives up to what you're expecting. 
> 
> having said that, please enjoy

“Wilson, you need to get out here,” House says. He sounds urgent, like when one of his patients is crashing right in front of him and he’s stood barking out orders to the ducklings. 

“Don’t you think I would if I could?” Wilson snaps. Somehow he manages to move himself in just the wrong way, and the wound in his stomach doesn't let him forget it. He can’t help but let out a small yelp of pain, curling over and clutching at his shirt again. 

“You need to plug the hole,” House tells him. 

“Thank you, I am a doctor too?”

“Yeah, a doctor whose gastric acid is currently seeping into his abdominal cavity and who, if he isn’t careful and doesn’t plug this wound soon, is risking his lungs collapsing,” House says. His words are accompanied with a glare. Somehow, it’s almost comforting, the normality of it all. Trust House to not change, even in a life-or-death situation. “Have you got anything in there you can use?”

“Um, I’m not sure,” Wilson says. He hisses in pain as he staggers around to the other side of his desk, opening the drawers one by one. 

“Seriously? You keep every trinket every stupid patient gives you, but you don’t have a proper first aid kit!?” 

“I had one a couple days ago, but I used it. I’m still waiting on a replacement.” Wilson looks up from his desk, holding up a box of tampons (sometimes patients need them and it pays to be prepared!) and giving House a questioning look. House gives him a withering one back. 

“I know you’ve been shot, but that’s really no reason to be an idiot,” House sneers. 

“Sorry, I just--”

“Stop wasting time and stick a tampon in your bullet wound.”

Wilson stares. He stares and stares and stares, staring for far too long for someone whose life currently has less time left on it than an oven-cooked ready meal. 

“You want me to…” Trailing off, he points first to the box of tampons and then to where his hand is clamped over the bleeding wound. 

“Eighteenth century,” House says. Wilson sighs, because this is the voice that House uses when he’s gearing up to give a lecture where he made the listener feel very, very stupid for either not knowing the information or not realising they knew said information sooner. 

“House, this is not the time for a history lesson. I am dying, y’know.”

It’s the first time either he or House have said it, and Wilson is sure that it takes both of them aback. For the first time since Charles entered his office, he feels tears prick the corners of his eyes and forces himself to blink them away. House is staring at him through the glass door. 

“And you’ll die a hell of a lot faster if you don’t listen to me,” he eventually says, although his tone is subtly subdued. “In the eighteenth century, the tampon, or something akin to it, was used as a medical device. It was used on the battlefield to plug bullet wounds. ‘S a little rudimentary, but since Mr Prepared isn’t, shockingly, prepared it’ll have to do.” 

“Yeah, this is my fault,” Wilson says dryly. With fumbling hands (he manages to wrench the one that isn’t holding the phone away from his wound for a moment) he opens the box, shakily pulling one out. The blood on his fingers smears over the cardboard box. He’s about to open the wrapping, shove the thing right on in there, when House makes a small noise which makes him stop and turn to look at his best friend. “What?”

“You’re going to be shoving something into an open wound,” House says carefully, his words measured. Wilson shrugs at him, as if to say _so what?_ House gives him what Wilson wants to tentatively call a sympathetic look, but this is _House_. House doesn’t do sympathy. “It’s going to hurt. A lot.”

“Right, yeah, of course,” Wilson says. He furrows his brow a little as he adds, “how did I forget that?”

“Peritonitis must be starting to set in,” House replies. “Now sit down before you fall down. Don’t need you doing any _more_ damage by doing some stupid like dislodging the bullet.”

Wilson knows he shouldn’t move too much, he _knows_ he should just sit down in his office chair, but right now the irrational part of his brain is in charge and that part wants to be close to someone. Unfortunately, the only person remotely close is House and he’s behind a glass door that’s across the room. _Ah well,_ he thinks, _it shall have to do._

With a grunt and a groan, he pushes himself off of his desk. He stumbles for a moment and his vision tunnels, but House calling his name pulls him back to the present. He regains his balance and, tucking the tampon into the top pocket of his shirt, begins to make his way forward. It’s slow-going, mainly because he has to keep stopping to clutch at his shirt and bite back a scream, but eventually he makes it to the door. He all but collapses onto the floor, his breathing rugged. 

“What the hell are you thinking?” House says. Wilson looks up at him. He can see his reflection in the glass now, and he can’t help but thinks that he looks utterly pitiful. He’s all sweaty, his usually neatly blow-dried hair plastered to his forehead, and he’s pale. He’s so pale that the flecks of blood on his cheek stands out even more prominently. 

“Yeah, shut up,” he breathes out. House huffs, and then a moment later his face appears in the glass. Wilson sits up a little, wincing before staring at House. He’s looking at him with that sympathetic-but-not-sympathetic look on his face again, his bad leg stretched out in front of him and his good one pulled up so his hand is resting on his knee, his back to the wall. Wilson is suddenly aware of how his own legs are splayed out beneath him and tries to rearrange himself a little. The attempt doesn’t last long, though. The pain makes sure of that. He manages to stop any screaming though, reducing it down to a mere whimper. 

“Stop moving so much,” House says, sounding a little uncomfortable. Wilson nods as he reaches into his pocket for the tampon. His hands are shaking, he notices whilst he’s unwrapping it. Discarding the wrapper and the plastic applicator to the side, he grips it between two fingers and sets about plugging it into the wound. Except, he can’t seem to. His hand is hovering about an inch away from the wound, and his breathing is getting ragged. He looks up at House with fear in his eyes. House glares at him in response. “What are you waiting for!? Do it!” 

“Alright, alright,” he says quickly as he looks away. He takes another deep breath, even though it hurts. Glancing around his office (and noting the blood splatters on his lovely blinds with a small sinking feeling), he forces himself to close his eyes and shoves it into his open wound. 

The pain is instantaneous. He can’t stop the sound this time and lets out a long, almost guttural scream. His hands are shaking even worse than before. It feels like white hot rods being pushed through his belly, reaching all the way to his navel and jumping up towards his chest. Still he keeps pushing the tampon until he feels like it’s not going to fall out. As soon as it is he lets it go, resting his head against the glass door and letting out a small sob. 

“Worse bit’s over,” House offers.

“You’re shit at this comforting thing,” Wilson chuckles. It hurts, but it helps. He raises one shaking hand, wiping the tears from his cheeks. In the process he smears blood across them. Clicking the phone onto speakerphone, he puts it on the floor and puts both of his hands onto his injury. House does the same. The two don’t speak, watching each other through the glass. House seems to be monitoring Wilson’s heaving breaths, whilst Wilson was searching his best friend’s face for something, anything really. A moment later, the door from House’s office to the balcony flies open, and Wilson looks away. It’s Cuddy, rushing over to the glass door. She crouches carefully down, pressing one hand against the glass. 

“Wilson?” she says. Her voice is loud and slow. 

“You don’t have to shout, we’re on the phone,” House grunts, pointing to the phone. As he does he pulls his trusty orange bottle out of his pocket, downing a couple of pills dry. Cuddy nods before turning back to the door. 

“We’ve got a team working on the locks,” she says. 

“No use,” Wilson replies. “Crutch stuffed under the handle.” 

“Can’t you get up and move it?”

“You’re telling a patient who’s just been shot and has internal injuries to move around _more_ !?” House exclaims. He’s glaring daggers at Cuddy. “I know you haven’t been a real doctor for a long time, but _really_!” 

“I don’t think I can move again,” Wilson says quietly. He winces again as another wave of pain crashes through his abdomen, and his hand tightens. “I’m sorry.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” 

Surprisingly it isn’t Cuddy who says this: it’s House. Both Wilson and Cuddy stare at him in confusion. He stares back at them, faking a gormless look as he shrugs his shoulders. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Wilson shrugs a little in response. 

“Now is not the time, House,” Cuddy snaps. She turns back to Wilson. “How’s the pain?” 

“He’s just been shot and you’re asking him how bad the pain is!?” House yells. Wilson flinches again. “You should be trying to get him out of there!” 

“Don’t you think I’m doing that!?” Cuddy shouts back. 

“If you were doing that, you’d be trying to smash the glass right now!” 

“We already thought about that,” she sighs. She sounds a little defeated now. “Smashproof.” 

House’s face drops a little, but barely. Breathing heavily, Wilson looks between them. 

“Side panels by the front door?”

“Same answer.”

“Why don’t you just bash the damn door down?” 

“Security is worried the gunman’s still alive in there.”

“He’s not,” Wilson cuts in, his voice quiet. The two stop their squabbling and turn to him. 

“He’s… dead?” Cuddy asks. Wilson nods. 

“Killed himself,” he says. “He’s, um…” At this point he has to stop, swallowing down a lump in his throat. “A patient. Terminal one. He was out of his mind, couldn’t comprehend what was happening to him. Somebody needs to inform--”

“Seriously!?” House shouts. Wilson shuts up. He knows to shut up when House shouts. Cuddy looks almost offended on the oncologist’s behalf, though, staring at House with an open mouth. “He _shot_ you and you’re making excuses for him!?” 

“Surprisingly, some of us actually care about our patients,” Wilson mumbles. As he tries to sit up a little more, the pain stabs at him and he lets out a small noise, collapsing back down. Cuddy moves forward towards him before remembering the glass door and falling back, looking pained. 

“And that care meant you got shot!” House roars. He looks angry now, properly properly angry, and for some reason it brings tears to Wilson’s eyes. “If you’d just got out of there before anything had happened we wouldn’t be in this mess!” 

“House--” Cuddy starts, but House cuts her off. 

“I bet you tried to reason with him, didn’t you?” Wilson stays silent, looking down at the floor. His head feels fuzzy and he can feel his heartbeat in his ears. He hears House laugh derisively. “Of _course_ you did.”

“House--”

“You’re not God, Wilson! You can’t save every stupid idiot who walks through your door, let alone ones who aim guns at you! If you’d--”

“House, _stop_!” Cuddy yells. House turns to her, fury in his eyes, but the concern written over her face makes him stop for a moment. He purses his lips, resting a hand on his bad leg and rubbing the damaged muscle a little. 

“He’s right,” Wilson murmurs. 

Cuddy turns to look at him in disbelief. She shakes her head, leaning forward even more. 

“Wilson, you can’t blame yourself for this,” she says softly. 

“What if I’d cured him?” he replies. His breathing is still fast and he’s shaking, badly. “If I’d just… got rid of the cancer then none of this would have happened. He’d still be alive, his family wouldn’t…” He stops, bending his head and letting out a low sob. Cuddy’s shoulders drop and she looks desperately over at House. He doesn’t seem to have been listening though. He’s leaning forward on his good leg, watching Wilson closely. Wilson had been expecting to hear a scathing remark from his best friend, but when after a few seconds nothing came, he looked up in confusion. House is still watching him, his lips moving but no sound coming out. His eyes are darting over him. It’s a strange stare, something Wilson’s only ever seen House do with patients before. All of a sudden he understands even more why people say what they say about the diagnostician. “House…” he starts to say, but the pain cuts him off and he lets out a yell, curling in on himself a little. 

“I need you to take your heart rate,” House says urgently once Wilson has straightened back up again. The oncologist lets his head fall back against the wall, closing his eyes again as his vision swims. The pain keeps getting worse, like a constant burning throbbing. If this is what House’s leg feels like, then he doesn’t know how the other man copes. “Hey!” House barks. “Listen to me.”

“I’m listening, I’m listening,” Wilson says quickly, opening his eyes and managing to turn his head to look at his best friend. 

As House and Cuddy regard the oncologist, they both note how awful he looks. Even through the glass door they can see the sheen of sweat on his face, the way his hand spasms every few seconds over the wound, how his mouth keeps tightening in time with the hand spasms. 

“You need to take your pulse,” House says. “I’ll time. Take it.” 

Wilson nods. Raising his hand, he tries to find the vein in his neck, but his hand is shaking so badly that he can’t keep his fingers in the right position for long enough. Eventually he just about manages it, and House nods, timing for the odd House-ian time of eight seconds. Once it’s done he looks at Wilson expectantly. “Well then? How many?”

“Twenty? Twenty-one? I don’t know, something like that,” Wilson replies. He drags a hand down his face, trailing even more blood down his cheek in the process. Cuddy puts her hand over her mouth, shaking her head as she gets up and moves away from the door. She stops about halfway down the balcony, bending her head. 

“You have a heart rate of one-hundred and fifty-seven,” House says. “Lean forward?”

Wilson does so obligingly, although he doesn’t so much as _lean_ forward as slump forward, the side of his head colliding with the glass with a dull thump. It’s cool, at least. He groans softly. “Open your eyes properly.” 

“Alright mum,” the oncologist mumbles as he does so. 

“Don’t get smart with me,” House says, sounding almost distracted as he too leans forward. If there hadn’t been an inch or so of glass separating them, their noses would’ve been almost touching. His best friend’s words are somewhat comforting, because this is the sort of joke House would make any time. Wilson can’t help but smile, at least until House snaps at him to keep his eyes clear and open. “Do you feel dizzy? Faint? Any nausea?” House asks once he leans back. Wilson notices he’s rubbing his leg again. 

“A bit of nausea,” he says. “You--”

“You didn’t answer all of my questions. And don’t lie.”

“A little faint, maybe,” Wilson says after a moment. “Look--”

“Cuddy, you might want to hurry up with the rescue efforts,” House says, his voice loud enough to drown Wilson out. Cuddy turns, giving the diagnostician an alarmed look. Wilson thinks it hurts more that House doesn’t even look at him as he says, “your Boy Wonder oncologist is going into shock.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know they're american but on principle i refuse to spell "mum" "mom" so you shall have to deal with it. 
> 
> sorry for another cliffhanger!!! i really hope you enjoyed this chapter, please stick around for the next one if you did and please remember to leave comments and kudos. they really do mean the world!!!
> 
> stay safe and happy, y'all xx


	3. five to ten minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyou for all the kudos and comments!!! it really means the world to me that people are enjoying this story!! i'm glad my little self-indulgent angst-fest is so well received lol
> 
> please enjoy this chapter!!

Cuddy’s reaction is instant. She stumbles back a little, hand over her mouth as she gasps. She mouths something to House before turning on her expensive heels and rushing away. Once again House and Wilson are left alone. 

“Aren’t you supposed to lie down and elevate your legs for shock?” Wilson says. His mind may be clouded from pain, but he remembers that little fact from med school. House huffs at him, rolling his eyes.

“Think about where your wound is,” he says. “Elevating your legs could make it worse, especially since we don’t know where the bullet ended up. Just… keep talking.” 

“About  _ what _ !?” Wilson exclaims. Bad idea, as it aggravates the wound and his eyes start to water. 

“I don’t know.” House shrugs. “Rant how your ex-wife is a bitch.”

“She’s not a bitch,” Wilson sighs. 

“Which one? There’s so many to choose from!” 

Wilson just about manages to muster up a glare at his best friend, but really he’s having to stop a smile growing on his face. This is so normal, so…  _ House  _ that it’s comforting. The only way he can reason with it is that it’s making him forget that he’s dying. Alone. Stupidly he wants to say something sappy and sentimental to his best friend.

“You shouldn’t be sitting on that floor,” he instead says. 

“Why not?” House shoots back. 

“You’ll hurt your leg.”

“I don’t think you remember, but it isn’t concrete that hurts my leg, it’s the huge missing chunk of thigh muscle?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Stop worrying about my leg,” House mumbles. His voice is soft, something Wilson hasn’t been expecting but isn’t complaining about. “How’s the pain?”

“Why do you care?” Wilson asks. House stares at him. The oncologist can’t figure out what his best friend is thinking, or even feeling, but after a moment he comes back to himself and fixes Wilson with an  _ are-you-stupid  _ look. 

“Contrary to popular belief, we are actually friends,” he says. “And anyway, who else am I supposed to steal lunch off?” 

“I’m sure you’ll find someone,” Wilson replies. He grimaces again as he tries to shift, but House glares at him and he stops. He feels his eyes fill with tears as the gravity of the situation hits just a little bit harder. It’s been six minutes, meaning two-fifths of the allotted survival time has already passed. That time could always be shorter too, if something else is happening that they don’t know about. He lets one tear roll down his cheek as he leans forward, resting a hand on the glass door. “I don’t wanna die, House.”

“Stop being so melodramatic, you’re not going to die,” House says after a moment. To most people his tone would sound almost dismissive, but Wilson has known House for long enough now to know his different tones. This is one he doesn’t hear often: it’s harsh enough to fit in with the House everybody knows, but it has a softer lilt to it that says  _ everything is going to be okay, because I’m going to fix it.  _ He smiles at his best friend. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. 

They hear the door to House’s office open and close again, and the two men look to see who it is. It’s Chase, his hands buried in his pockets. He looks shaken. 

“I know all this is going on, but we still have a patient,” he says awkwardly. If looks can kill, Chase is dead on the balcony. 

“Patient can wait,” House grunts before turning away from his employee. 

“Not very long. He’s had another seizure, brain can’t take much more.”

That catches House’s attention. His eyes flick back to Chase before he looks back to Wilson. 

“Get me a coffee,” he eventually says to Chase. 

“Yeah, and a couple of biscuits too,” Wilson jokes. He can feel that his breathing is too fast, but there’s nothing he can do to force himself to slow it down. House is about to shout at Chase to  _ “fuck off”  _ (probably) but Wilson speaks before he can. “Seriously, House. You have a patient. Don’t let me stop you doing your job.”

House looks pained as he looks between Wilson and Chase, but eventually nods.

“Bring the whiteboard out!” House calls after the Australian as he disappears back into the office. 

“You’re going to do a differential… out there?” Wilson asks in confusion. He can hear some commotion going on by the front door of his office, and chooses for his own sanity not to look over. House nods as if this is a completely normal thing to do. 

“You can even join in!” the diagnostician says, his tone akin to somebody telling a child they can indeed have a packet of sweets. Wilson rolls his eyes. His nausea is getting worse now, and his heart is still racing. He thinks he sees House wince-- and not his normal  _ my-leg-hurts  _ wince, a different wince-- as the two look over each other once more, but he pushes the thought out of his mind. One thing he doesn’t push out, however, is the fact that House is kneading the muscles in his bad leg with his hand again. 

“House, your leg--”

“ _ To hell with my leg! _ ” House shouts. It’s the angriest Wilson has heard him yet and it makes him fall silent, pursing his lips and trying to quell the latest wave of nausea. “For once in your life stop being so damn selfless!” 

“Was it selfless when I cheated on my wives?” Wilson asks. He manages to raise his head enough to look at his best friend properly, fire in his eyes. House doesn’t answer, which is enough for the oncologist. He lets out a small pained chuckle, leaning his head back against the glass door. “Didn’t think so.” 

House opens his mouth to respond, but quickly shuts it again as his ducklings emerge from the office. Chase hands House coffee. Foreman sets up the whiteboard he’s been carrying under his arm. Cameron comes straight to the door, sitting opposite House and giving Wilson what the oncologist definitely recognises as a sympathetic look. 

“Don’t worry, they’ve got loads of people working out getting you out,” she says. “There’s an OR on standby, all the available specialists are waiting outside--”

“Yeah, yeah, great, Boy Wonder is going to live,” House snaps. “We’ve got a patient.” 

“House--” Cameron starts to say, her tone warning, but House cuts her off. 

“Differential diagnosis!” The diagnostician moves to get up, but as he does Wilson sees his best friend’s leg shake and he soon sits back down. He jerks his head towards Chase and then the board. Chase understands and nods, taking the marker and transcribing as House says, “what causes abdominal pain, dying bones, anaemia and bleeding problems?”

“Autoimmune?” Cameron suggests. Wilson watches them with a small smile on his face. Something inside him enjoys watching House and his team work. “The body is attacking itself and damaging the blood supply to the bones, killing them. Also explains the abdominal pain.”

“But not the fact that as more bone died, white count would decrease and symptoms would improve,” Foreman counters. He shrugs, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the side of the balcony. “Liver and spleen are enlarged. Could be--”

Unfortunately, Foreman doesn’t get any further with whatever he was about to say because Wilson is throwing up in his office. The diagnostics team all turn at once and watch him as it happens. Wilson can tell even though his eyes are closed. They have a piercing stare. He can’t help but feel a little humiliated as he spits out another mouthful of vomit onto the floor.  _ That’s another thing for Cuddy to have to get cleaned _ , he thinks. He’s hoping that he’ll get a nice new carpet out of the whole ordeal, though. 

If he lives long enough to reinhabit the office, that is. 

“Sorry,” he says miserably once he finishes throwing up. He doesn’t look down at his stomach contents, instead electing to look at the four in front of him. They’re all staring at him, haunted looks on their face. Chase and Foreman glance at House for a moment before running back out into the office. The oncologist watches them go in confusion. “What--” he starts to say, but Cameron cuts him off. 

“House, we have to get him out of there,” she says urgently, her eyes glued on her boss. House nods gravely. 

“I know,” he says. Then he jerks his head to the whiteboard. “Patient has Gaucher’s disease. Run tests to confirm then start him on ERT. I’m assuming Chase and Foreman are dealing with Cuddy, so you can take the patient.”

“House!” she exclaims. Wilson looks between the two. His mind is so blurry that he can’t even figure out the looks they’re exchanging. House glances at Wilson and then reaches forward, covering the speaker of the phone. Even so, Wilson faintly hears him say through the glass,

“I’ve got this. Go and make yourself useful, I’ll… page you if anything happens.” 

Cameron looks pained, but nods. She gives Wilson one last look through the glass before getting up and walking towards House’s office. Just before she goes in, she looks back, shakes her head and heads back into the office. House uncovers the speaker. 

“House, what the hell is going on?” Wilson demands. He coughs harshly, and it hurts. Nothing new. Everything is hurting now. Through his shirt, his abdomen feels as stiff as a board. House meets his eyes, and there’s a level of sincerity in them. 

“You just vomited blood,” he says. 

Wilson’s eyes widen and he looks quickly down. Sure enough, among what’s left of his stomach contents there is dark red blood. 

“Gastric blood,” is all he replies. 

“Probably,” House says. Wilson is shaking even worse than before as he looks up, shaking his head. 

“House--”

“You should lie down,” the diagnostician says quickly. “In case you vomit again and you don’t move your head in time.” 

Wilson nods dumbly. Slowly, with much grabbing at the now blood-soaked material of his shirt, he begins to lower himself into the recovery position. He screams a couple of times, and each time he sees House do that wince, he’s sure of it. Eventually, though, he manages to get into the position, even if his breathing is ragged and harsh by the time he’s there. In that time Cuddy has also reappeared and is pacing the balcony, one hand on her forehead. 

“How long on the door?” House asks urgently. 

“Security are all locked in their offices,” Cuddy says. “Apparently the gunman went around and locked everything before coming up to Wilson’s office. The fire department is on their way, but they’re held up a few blocks away.” 

“We’ve got less than six minutes left,” House says. His eyes are soft, staring pleadingly up at Cuddy, and it seems to make her melt towards him a little. 

“I know,” she says. “We’re doing everything we can.” 

House looks to the side, his mouth twitching a little. 

“You should be saying it to him, not me,” he grumbles. Cuddy does so, and at the end she adds on a quick, 

“Everything is going to be fine.”

As his wound gives another harsh, painful jolt, Wilson isn’t feeling so sure about that anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyou for reading!!! please keep an eye out for the next chapter, not sure when it will be out but most likely tomorrow night!! please leave comments and/or kudos, they really make my day and i love getting feedback on my stories/writing
> 
> stay safe and happy, y'all xx


	4. ten to fifteen minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everybody and welcome back! sorry for no chapter yesterday, but i wanted to make sure this one was good and done properly. i really hope you all enjoy it!!!!

Wilson feels stupid. 

He knows he shouldn’t, but he does. He feels utterly utterly idiotic as he lies there, staring up at House and Cuddy sniping at each other. He wants to close his eyes, just forget about everything that is happening, but the doctor part of his brain is screaming at him that if he does that, he’ll fall unconscious and _that_ is more dangerous and scary than anything that can happen to him whilst he’s awake. 

Both he and the office stink of death. Wilson isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to get the smell out of his hair or the carpet. He’ll have to throw everything in here away. No amount of dry cleaning will ever get the smell of blood, brains and death out of a couch cushion. He keeps finding his eyes flicking up and looking towards Charles’ body. Every time is exactly as awful as the one before, and he can’t wrench his eyes away from the hole in the side of the man’s head. Charles may have been dying, but he still had another three months at least, if not more. He could have had a good few months with his family. 

Instead he’s lying on Wilson’s office floor, leaking brain tissue and fluid into the carpet. 

He chooses not to think too much about it, and instead focuses on House and Cuddy’s squabbling. It’s normal, very normal, and it lets him think about something other than death. Although that’s not really true: as an oncologist, he’s always thinking about death. It’s a rather macabre job description, but he knows it’s mainly true. Whilst he went into oncology hoping to save countless lives (which he has done), he quickly learned that it’s about comfort too. It’s about making people comfortable at the worst times in their lives, and giving them comfort too. It’s about dignity, he thinks, even if dignity is often little and far between. He’s never met a patient who doesn’t carry themselves with at least a little dignity, and that always helps on the bad days. Dignity and comfort. 

Right now, he’s unsure on whether he has either. 

Cuddy soon disappears, leaving House alone on the balcony and Wilson alone in his office. Things are getting worse now, both doctors are acutely aware of it. For Wilson, his head is pounding, his wound is throbbing and his vision is starting to go dark around the edges. Every time he blinks it seems to take an extortionate amount of effort to open his eyes again. 

“Why… are you still… here?” he huffs out after a few moments of silence. 

“Why wouldn’t I be here?” House counters. He’s looking down at his lap, messing with his fingernails. 

“Gunshot. Visually… exciting, diagnostically boring,” the oncologist replies. It’s getting harder to talk now as well. 

“Case is solved,” House says, shrugging again. “I’ve not got anywhere else to be.”

“House. Look… at me.” 

House does so. Wilson is staring up at him, a pleading look in his glassy eyes. He looks desperate-- and somehow even paler than before, the physician in his head notes. “If I die--”

“You aren’t going to die,” House says quickly. 

“ _If I die_ ,” Wilson continues, his voice fierce. It’s obvious that talking is paining him, but he doesn’t stop. “You can have… everything. ‘S not much.” 

“Even your Lady GaGa CDs?” the diagnostician says, pretending to be excited. Wilson laughs at that, but winces right after. 

“Yeah, even… them.” Wilson sighs, looking up to the ceiling of his office for a moment before looking back down to his best friend. “The funeral--”

“Stop with the death talk,” House says. He sounds passionate, Wilson would say, like he does when he’s trying to convince Cuddy of some crazy hair-brained scheme. “You are _not_ going to die, you hear me? I didn’t get you out of jail all those years ago to have you die miserable and alone in front of me.” 

“Balance of probability,” Wilson says. Then he coughs harshly, causing House to furrow his brow before assuming a softer look. 

“Denying the numbers is what I do,” he says. “What _you_ do. You really think either of us aren’t stubborn enough to stay alive through pure spite?”

Wilson laughs. He feels something bubble on his lips and he’s fairly sure it’s blood, but he chooses not to test that hypothesis. 

“Maybe _you_ are…” he says. House smiles at him then, actually _smiles_ , and Wilson hasn’t realised how much he misses than _damn smile_ until now. Letting another tear trickle down his cheek, he raises a shaking hand and presses it against the glass. House looks down at his best friend’s hand, then back up at his face. 

“You really want to have a _Wrath of Khan_ moment?” he says skeptically. He knows that was the right thing to say as Wilson’s face lights up and he lets out a surprised giggle. 

“You said you’d never watch it!” he exclaims. Right after he lets out a low pained noise, but it isn’t long until he’s looking back at his best friend. House rolls his eyes and murmurs something Wilson can’t quite hear, but he leans forward and presses his hand to the glass, right over Wilson’s own. “Thank you,” he says quietly. 

There’s more banging on the door now, and it’s absolutely killing his head. Each bang is like a jolt of electricity through his skull, each one worse than the last. It’s making it harder to keep his eyes open too. He lets out a quiet groan, feeling the world start to swim again. 

“Hey!” House barks. He manages to force his eyes open, but only just. “No falling unconscious.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilson blurts. The diagnostician looks confused then, giving him a strange look. 

“For what?” he says after a moment. 

“I don’t know!” Wilson replies, heaving out another breath. “Anything I ever… did, I guess.”

“You never did anything,” House mumbles. Wilson gives him a look then. “Okay, maybe you cheated a couple times, but your ex-wives were idiots.” The oncologists shrugs a little, giving him a small smile of agreement. “Seriously. If anyone should be apologising it should be me.” 

“House, you’re an... ass,” Wilson says. It isn’t exactly what the diagnostician was expecting, but after a moment his best friend continues. “But you’re my ass. I don’t…I don’t know where… where I’d be without you.” House’s eyes soften a little and he doesn’t exactly _smile_ , but the corner of his lips quirk up a little as he looks down at his lap. “You might be rude.... unapologetic, hell you... might be... a downright jerk sometimes, but you’re my… my best friend. I don’t know what I’d... do without you. And I--”

All of a sudden Wilson stops talking. There is silence for a moment, then a strange choking sound erupts from his throat. House looks sharply up to see Wilson staring at him in panic, clearly struggling to breathe. The diagnostician feels his own breathing speed up as he tries to move closer to the window (to get a better view of the medical emergency, he tells himself) but his leg stubbornly refuses to shift. 

“Tampon didn’t work,” he says. Wilson’s eyes widen a little as he chokes on another breath. “Your lungs are collapsing.”

“Collapsing?” Wilson manages to say. House nods gravely. “Oh my God…”  
  
“Stop talking, you’ll make it worse,” House orders. Wilson shuts his mouth obediently. For the first time in a long time House feels a little bit of panic building up inside him as he says, “you’re gonna be fine.” Wilson shakes his head as more tears start to pour down his cheeks. “No. You _are_. Don’t look at me like that.”

“House…” Wilson breathes, but he doesn’t get any further than that. Instead the oncologist settles for looking at his best friend, silently sobbing as memories flash through his mind. They’re mostly good… and they’re mostly House. Right from when they first met when he was in that dingy jail cell in Louisiana, to the infarction and the countless hours spent together since that. He may have had two more divorces since they met, both of which could be put partly down to House, but if he could change time he wouldn’t. Not for the world. He has House, and House has him. 

And he wouldn’t want it any other way. 

“Wilson, look at me!” House says, sounding desperate. The oncologist doesn’t reply this time, groaning as his head bobs. “Wilson! Jimmy!” No response to that either, strange since Wilson usually at least gives him a bit of a look at that. Panic building in his chest, he glances around to make sure nobody is there before leaning forward and yelling, “James!” 

That works. Wilson looks straight up at him. There are tears in his eyes as his mouth drops open a little. 

“You just…” he whispers as he wheezes. “You never…”

“I know,” House mumbles. Then he looks up sharply. “Hey! Stay awake!” 

Wilson groans again. His vision is blurring so badly now that he can hardly make out where House is at all, and his eyelids seem to weigh a thousand tonnes. A quiet voice in the back of his head is telling him to just close his eyes, let it all wash over him, _let the pain go away_. Vaguely he can hear House screaming at him down the phone to stay awake but he knows he just can’t do it. 

“I…” he murmurs. “I… House, I…”

Before he can finish the sentence, he is vaguely aware of one last loud bang, House’s fraught voice calling his name and he can't resist it any more as oblivion takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for yet another cliffhanger. i do seem to be doing that, don't i?? anyhow, i hope you enjoyed!!! comments and/or kudos really make my day, so please considering leaving one-- or both!!! any will be appreciated lol
> 
> stay safe and happy, y'all xx


	5. 2 days to 2 days 10 minutes

The first thing Wilson is acutely aware of is a bright light. 

Despite being raised Jewish, he’s never been particularly religious. Even if he had been, the Torah is frustratingly vague on the matter of the afterlife. Religious texts tend to focus more on the coming of the Messiah in Judaism, that much he remembers from his bar mitzvah. This somewhat lax view on religion has led him to avoid thinking about any sort of afterlife whenever possible, which is difficult when your job deals with death on a daily basis. If a patient ever asks him, he always shrugs, makes a non-committal noise and asks them what they think about it. That usually works. 

But at that moment, when he sees that bright white light, his first thought is that he’s dead, that maybe this is the afterlife people talk about. Then, of course, House’s voice weasels its way in, telling him _“that bright light people sometimes see is just the final chemical reactions of a dying brain, idiot”_. It’s equally condescending and insulting, and it makes Wilson chuckle to himself. 

The bright light quickly rescinds, however, and all that is left is darkness. Right now darkness is the last thing he wants. Darkness is unknown. Dangerous. Lord knows he’s now had enough danger for a lifetime. 

Literally, perhaps. 

His sense of time is so warped that he isn’t even sure what _year_ it is, let alone the month or day. He tries to look around in the darkness, but then he finds that he can’t really feel much. Trying his best not to panic, he focuses, straining to see… well, _anything_ really. 

He’s about to give up when something happens. It isn’t something visual, but he’s sure he can hear beeping. Beeping that sounds a lot like a hospital monitor, actually… Suddenly energised, he fights to hold his concentration, and before long he’s aware of his arms, his legs, a heavy feeling in his stomach. 

Oh, and a tube down his throat. 

When his eyes open, he can’t really see anything but his first priority is getting this damn tube out. He reaches up and scrabbles to catch it, but his hands are numb and he can’t seem to control them properly. As he squeezes his eyes shut again, there is a hand on his, stopping him. The hand disappears and ghosts over his cheek before he feels the tube being taken out. It hurts and he coughs harshly, wincing. Then just to add to the discomfort, the hand moves up and holds his left eye open, flashing a light in it! He tries to move away, but the hand keeps him there. That’s when Wilson realises that there’s only one person who would do this the _second_ a patient wakes up. 

House. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” the diagnostician’s gruff voice says. All of a sudden Wilson is more than eager to open his eyes. The lights hurt just as much though, and House seems to notice this as after a moment the oncologist hears the familiar sound of a cane on linoleum and the room darkens. He just about manages to crack one eye open and it's bearable, so slowly he opens the other and surveys the room.

It’s a standard hospital room. He doesn’t really know what else to say. Now he’s more awake he’s guessing the tube was a ventilator, so that probably means that he’s in ICU, or at the very least somewhere _near_ ICU. House is leaning on the wall by the door, swinging his cane around in the air by the handle. He’s almost smiling. 

“How…?” Wilson starts to ask, but his throat is scratchy and it hurts to talk. 

“Two days,” House replies brusquely. He stops twirling his cane as he pushes himself off the wall and comes forward, taking a seat by the bed. He pulls out his Vicodin and pops a couple of pills. Upon seeing the Vicodin Wilson becomes acutely aware of the fact that he feels surprisingly little pain in his abdomen. Then he looks to the side, sees the morphine drip and relaxes a little. 

“Water?” he asks hoarsely, fixing House with what his former wives and girlfriends refer to as _“the puppy dog eyes”_. It works too, as House takes a glass with a straw and holds it to his lips. He takes a sip and it soothes his throat. “Thanks,” he murmurs as he sits back against the cushions. 

“Two days,” House repeats, as if he feels he didn’t quite emphasise it enough the first time. “You flatlined _at least_ once on the table.”

“At least?” Wilson asks. 

“They wouldn’t tell me anything after that, and Cuddy’s been guarding your file,” House mutters as he looks down to where he’s messing with his cane. He looks up as he says, “she’s like a shark!” 

Wilson snorts out a laugh as he shifts a little. 

“What else?” he says. 

“Well, you flatlined once during your three-hour long surgery, been unconscious ever since.” House shrugs, looking down again. “Not much else to say.” 

“Who did the surgery?” Wilson asks. 

“Anderson,” House replies. 

“Anderson _hates_ me,” the oncologist says. 

“Nobody here hates you,” House says, waving his hand dismissively. Wilson gives him a look. 

“Trust me, Anderson hates me,” he says. “And anyway, he’s the best trauma surgeon in the hospital, he’d find a simple GSW boring. Who convinced him to do the surgery?”

“Does it matter?” House snaps. Wilson knows that tone, and he knows it means that it was House who convinced Anderson, who’s hated him ever since he pointed out that he’d made a mistake in a suture which could’ve caused a rupture and killed the patient, to do the surgery. He gives his best friend a small smile, sighing as he sits back. “The point is you’re alive. Alive with an NG tube for now, pumped full of antibiotics and what’s going to be a nasty-looking scar, but alive. I was right.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Wilson points out. He smiles and rests a hand over his stomach. He can feel where the dressing is. “What are you doing, stealing my morphine or something?”

“You really think I’d let him do that?”

The boys both look over to the door and the source of the voice. It’s Cuddy, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s smiling. Wilson perks up a little, flashing her a smile as he tries to sit up a bit more again. “It’s good to see you awake,” she says as she comes forward. She glances at House. “Did you take him off the ventilator?”

“Started fighting it as soon as he woke up,” House says shortly. Wilson knows that his best friend only gets snippy like this when he thinks somebody is questioning his medical judgement, and it mysteriously makes him smile. “Or was I supposed to let him _choke_ until you got here?”

“No need,” Cuddy says, rolling her eyes. She turns her attention back to Wilson, leaning forward and checking his pupils just as House had done, just more gently. “How do you feel?” she asks as she leans back and clicks her penlight off. 

“Surprisingly good,” Wilson says with a smile. 

“Because you’re pumped full of morphine,” House cuts in. Wilson rolls his eyes at him, as does Cuddy. “I’m jealous.” 

“House said Anderson did my surgery?” the oncologist continues. Cuddy nods. “And that I flatlined on the table?” She nods again, a pained look on her face now. He glances over at House. “Huh. You weren’t lying.”

“I don’t lie, moron,” House snipes. 

“Are my parents--” Wilson starts to say, but House cuts him off with a shake of his head. 

“They’re not here.”

“House!” Wilson exclaims, sitting up and leaning forward. “You should have called them! I know you hate your parents, but some of us actually have good relationships with the people that birthed us. They deserve to know if their son has been--”

He is cut off when he feels a sudden jolt of pain in his abdomen. Cuddy moves quickly forward, shushing him and helping him sit back in the bed. He hisses in pain as he rests a hand back over his belly. 

“Calm down, you’ll send your blood pressure sky-rocketing,” Cuddy says. 

“I called them, anyway,” House says uncomfortably. He’s fussing with his cane again. “Weather’s been bad and their flight got cancelled. They should be here by tonight.”

“That means I’ve only got…” Wilson trails off as he realises that he doesn’t actually know what the time is. Automatically he goes to look at his watch, but all that greets him is his hospital wristband. It feels strange to see his own name and date of birth looking back up at him. “What’s the time?”

“About half twelve,” Cuddy replies. 

“I’ve got six hours to look presentable,” Wilson groans, collapsing back on the cushions. 

“You were shot just over forty-eight hours ago,” House says. “I don’t think they’re gonna care what you look like.”

“ _You’ve_ never met my mother,” Wilson remarks. 

“A minute ago you were moaning about that fact I hadn’t called your parents, now you’re annoyed that I _have_ ,” House replies with a slight sneer. “Honestly, make your mind up.” 

“House, he’s been awake all of five minutes, cut him some slack,” Cuddy scolds. 

“No, it’s fine,” Wilson says. He smiles at them both. “I’d be more worried if he _wasn’t_ being like this.” 

Cuddy laughs at that, and as he looks over his best friend Wilson swears he sees his lips quirk up into a slight smile.

Cuddy leaves not long after this, patting Wilson on the shoulder and promising to visit again later. Wilson looks around the room again once she leaves, noting the decor. There’s cards, bunches of flowers, even stuffed animals littering every flat surface in the room. House cranes his neck to make sure Cuddy is definitely gone before putting his legs up on the bed, forcing Wilson to shuffle over for him. He does it without any fuss, because he notices immediately how House is giving his bad leg more support than normal. “Haven’t you got a patient?” he asks. 

“Not at the moment,” House replies. 

“What, your diagnosis was right?”

“You sound surprised.”

Wilson laughs, smiling at his best friend. 

“Thank you,” he says after a moment. 

“For what?” House says gruffly. Wilson shrugs, looking down at the bedsheets as he starts to fiddle with them.

“For staying, before. For convincing Anderson to do my surgery.” House moves to protest, but Wilson shuts him up with nothing more than a look and a wag of his index finger. “And _don’t_ deny it, because I know it was you. You and Cuddy are the only people Anderson listens to, and if it’d been Cuddy she would’ve been telling me _all_ about it.”

“That’s a very cynical assessment of her character, Dr Wilson,” House says. He’s clearly mocking him, but it makes Wilson chuckle. 

“She’s a lovely woman and she works very hard, but she knows how to kiss ass when she needs to.” 

House laughs at that then, and there it is again! That smile that Wilson has so relished to see. It’s infectious, because it isn’t long before he finds himself smiling too. 

“You don’t have to thank me,” House says. “You would’ve done the same for me.” 

“And you would’ve griped and moaned at me about for at _least_ six months afterwards. There’s more to this.”

House doesn’t answer, and if Wilson knows one thing about House it’s that when he doesn’t answer, it’s not because he doesn’t know the answer…

It’s because the answer scares him.


	6. 2 days 13 hours 30 minutes- 2 days 13 hours and 45 minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last chapter!!!!!! thankyou for all the kudos and the lovely comments, they've really been keeping me going!!! i'm glad you all enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it.
> 
> i hope you enjoy this xx

As Wilson had expected, his parents have been and gone. His mother cried, his father tried to look stoic, he spent the whole time comforting them both. House had disappeared whilst they’d been there, much to the oncologist’s disappointment. He quickly returned once they’d gone (the last thing his mother had told him was to wash his hair, just as he’d expected) and they shared a quick conversation over an episode of General Hospital (House certainly enjoyed watching his soaps on a big screen rather than on his portable) before Wilson had fallen asleep. 

Now, though, it’s the middle of the night and House is poking him awake. 

“House,” Wilson murmurs as he tries to swat his best friend-- or, more accurately, his best friend’s cane-- away. House, of course, doesn’t stop: if anything he actually pokes him more. “Ho-o-o-ouse!” 

“Up,” House mutters. 

“It’s the middle of the night!” Wilson cries. Even so, he opens his eyes. House’s face is barely two inches from his. The rest of the room is dark, and he can hear the nurses rustling around in the background. 

“And the nurses are finally distracted. Now come on, get up. We’re going for a walk.” 

“And again,  _ it’s the middle of the night, _ ” Wilson shoots back, enunciating each word as if he is saying them to a four year old. In effect this is what he’s doing, so it’s appropriate. “Let me sleep!” 

“You’ve been asleep for two days,” House says, his voice petulant. 

“And!?” 

“Walking’ll stop you throwing a clot. Trust me, you don’t want that.” 

That sentence makes Wilson realise that House is serious, or at least hell-bent on annoying and/or guilt tripping him until he does so. Letting out a long, low sigh, he nods, allowing House to come forward and help him up. It’s a fairly long and laborious process, one that procures much swearing from both of them, but eventually he finds himself upright on his own two feet. It’s… nice. Normal. He wishes he didn’t have a hospital gown on or that he wouldn’t still be standing if he wasn’t holding onto the IV pole like a lifeline, but it’ll do for now. He shoots House an irritated look: can’t let the ass think he’s  _ winning _ , right?

“Why do I let you talk me into this stuff?” the oncologist whines as they shuffle down the hallway, House on his cane and Wilson clutching at his morphine drip. It’s taken them a few minutes to sneak past the ICU nurses’ station, and although Wilson will never admit it he did find it just the tiniest bit thrilling. House rolls his eyes at his best friend. 

“You don’t have to get your knickers in a twist,” he says. He also gives Wilson a very certain look that the other man can’t help but blush at. “Two cripples, no-one will dare stop us. We could rob a bank right now and people would be tripping over themselves to open doors for us.”

Wilson snorts with laughter, looking up at his best friend with a somewhat awestruck look in his eye. 

“If Cuddy catches us out here, she’ll kill you  _ and  _ me,” he remarks after a moment, looking away. “Probably in that order.”

“So we don’t let Cuddy catch us,” House says simply. 

“Ah yes, such a detailed,  _ solid  _ plan.” 

“It’s two in the morning, dumbass.” House pauses to give the oncologist an exasperated look as he pulls out his Vicodin, popping a couple of pills. “The hospital’s not on fire, she’ll have gone home.”

Wilson shrugs a little. It  _ does  _ make sense… Looking around as they slow to a stop, he realises that whilst they’ve been talking they’ve somehow made it all the way down to the floor below the ICU without anyone stopping them. They’re standing in front of a patient’s room, a patient whom House is watching very carefully through a gap in the blinds which Wilson can’t quite see through. It doesn’t take him long to realise:

“You lied!” he cries, pointing a finger at House. The diagnostician doesn’t turn, doesn’t move, doesn’t make any indication that he’s heard Wilson at all. “You  _ do  _ have a patient!” 

Wilson’s theory is confirmed when Cameron, Foreman and Chase all emerge from the patient’s room, looking despondent. They seem shocked when they see House, but they are more shocked when they clap eyes on Wilson and all rush forward at once, asking a million questions. Wilson looks between their eager (well, Cameron and Chase are eager, Foreman maybe not so much) faces in utter confusion, nudging HOuse to try and get him to help. He, of course, doesn’t. The word  _ bastard _ , along with many others, floats through the oncologist’s head. After a minute or so they calm down, and he manages to answer a couple of the questions he’s managed to catch. Then, inevitably, House cuts in. 

“The patient?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at his team. 

“Tox screen was negative,” Chase says. 

“As were blood cultures,” Cameron adds. 

“Nothing on the scan,” Foreman finishes. 

“Keep looking,” House says after a pause. “Do… I don’t really care what you do, just do something.” His team stare at him: Wilson can tell they’re not used to this much free rein. “Scram!” 

The three of them do so quickly, throwing a promise to visit Wilson behind them. Wilson can’t help but notice the glint of fondness in House’s eye as he watches the ducklings go. “They grow up so fast,” he says in a fake teary voice. Wilson rolls his eyes. 

“Can we sit down?” he asks. His legs are starting to get tired now, despite the fact he’s not been up for longer than five or ten minutes. 

“Weak,” House replies, but within thirty seconds he’s located a suitable bench and beckons the oncologist over. Wilson sits down with a sigh, one hand still on his IV pole, and House does the same. They both stretch their legs out in front of them as they sit and watch the people go by. Admittedly there aren’t many people, given it’s gone two a.m, but it’s still pleasant, Wilson finds. The two sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before it finally gets too much and Wilson knows he  _ has  _ to say something. 

“Why are you here?” he asks. His voice is quiet, but in the silence of the corridor it’s almost deafening. 

“Because many years ago two people did--” House starts, but Wilson cuts him off. 

“ _ Here  _ here.”

There’s a pregnant pause. 

“Because Big Bad Cuddy made me take a patient!”

“House!” 

The diagnostician sighs. Drumming his cane against the floor as he rests his chin on the handle and looks up to the ceiling, he lets out a deep breath through his nose. Wilson watches him carefully. 

“I wanted to talk,” he eventually says. 

Wilson practically goggles at him, jaw dropping open as he can’t help but stare. House, talk? In all the years he’s known the man, House has never been much of a talker. He’s more of a…  _ doer,  _ shall he say.  _ “Who are you and what have you done with Greg House!?”  _ he wants to scream. 

“Okay?” is what actually comes out of his mouth, however. 

“Before you fell unconscious,” House says.  _ Right to the point,  _ Wilson thinks as he nods. “You were trying to tell me something.”

“I was?” Wilson replies. He can sort of remember that he was trying to say something and that it was important, but it’s fuzzy. 

“You did a big sappy speech, then you were trying to say something,” the diagnostician explains. Wilson remembers the speech. He didn’t think it had been  _ that  _ sappy, but then again he had been dying at the time. “I want to know what.”

There is a long stretch of silence. Wilson focuses on a spot in the corner of the ceiling as he searches his mind, trying to remember what the hell it was he was trying to say. Perhaps it’s the morphine coursing through his system, or the lingering effects of the blood loss, but he cannot remember what he had been trying to say for the life of him. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” he says after a while. House looks disappointed, and Wilson inexplicably finds guilt building in the pit of his stomach. “Give me a second, let me think again, I might be able to--”

Before he can finish his sentence, House’s lips are on his. 

It’s only a quick kiss, nothing to write home about particularly, but it manages to completely short-circuit Wilson’s brain. He stares at his best friend, his breathing starting to get short as he finds himself completely unsure of what to think. He’s both got everything and nothing in his brain, and he doesn’t know what to do. House is surveying him in a rather creepy way, and after a few moments he sighs, shaking his head. 

“Maybe not,” he says. Wilson can’t do anything but watch, his mouth slightly open, as House gets up and starts to limp down the corridor. That’s what makes Wilson’s brain finally boot into gear. He stands as quickly as he can, calling House’s name. He stops, but only for a moment, and he never turns. Huffing to himself, the oncologist grabs his IV pole and rushes forward as fast as he can, just managing to catch House’s arm before he round the corner. The diagnostician turns to look at him, and he looks worried. “You shouldn’t be rushing, you’ll--”

“Shut up,” Wilson murmurs, and he pulls him into another kiss. 

“ _ Damn _ ,” House mumbles. Wilson pulls away, confused. “Now I owe Cuddy a hundred dollars.”

“A hundred dollars?  _ Cuddy _ ? What!?” Wilson exclaims. He feels very,  _ very  _ puzzled. 

“She said if I kissed you you’d kiss back,” House says a little uncomfortably, staring at the floor. “I disagreed. She was right.” 

“I don’t… I can’t…” Wilson shakes his head as he searches his mind for any sort of rational explanation. “And this is real?”

“Pretty sure,” House replies. “I doubt you’d have the brain power to come up with this.”   


“Fuck off.”   


“I’d rather fuck  _ you _ .” 

“Shut up,” Wilson says again, only more fondly this time as he leans up to kiss his mad bastard best friend once again. 

" _House_!" 

It's Cuddy's voice, echoing from down the corridor. As they break apart, the two exchange cheeky grins. 

"I think we should go," Wilson offers. House nods. 

As they walk away, Wilson slips his hand into House's, and House doesn't object. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyou for reading!!! as ever, any comments and/or kudos are greatly appreciated, and i will endeavour to reply to any and all comments. i hope you enjoyed this little angst fest i allowed myself to indulge in
> 
> stay safe and happy, y'all xx


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